


Iron and pearls

by enfantdivine



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Object Insertion, Pain, Rough Sex, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-07 00:39:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3154343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enfantdivine/pseuds/enfantdivine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil visits Dáin in Erebor and brings him news that the King under the Mountain is not very happy about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I just adore this pairing to bits and had to write something for it. I can't believe there was a time I found it abominable, and I want to dedicate this fic to anyone who helped me get over that phase xD Especially to [Sleepless_Malice](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/profile), to whom I'll forever be grateful for [this perfect fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2941583) <3
> 
> There is going to be a lot more smut in the next chapters. I'll add tags when I publish them because I still haven't decided what exactly is about to happen :3 Sorry about mistakes as usual, oh and about the title too, it's bad, I know, but at least it makes some sense, or it will at some point. And don't even ask me about Dáin's Scottish accent, ok... It's so difficult to write accents. I decided not to overdo it. 
> 
> Ok, that's it, enjoy!

The cloaked figure stepped forward from the room’s shadow and into the glowing light of the blazing fire burning in the hearth. Ring-adorned fingers pulled back the dark hood, and the Elvenking’s flowing hair draped his shoulders in pale golden strands, richer and more radiant than the sumptuous circlet decorating his head. His eyes shone like pure sapphires. With imposing grace, he walked towards the center of the room slowly, a haughty look plastered on his majestic features. The thick furs covering the floor absorbed the sound of his footsteps completely, adding to his ethereal appearance, and, for a moment, even Dáin Ironfoot couldn't help but gaze in awe at the striking beauty in front of him.

“Well, now,” the dwarf addressed him in an appreciative tone, “yer a sight for sore eyes!” It had been a long, tiresome day for him, and the elf’s unexpected visit gave him hope that he would end it in better spirits. He gave him one more look of undisguised appraisal and headed to the table in one of the room’s corners to pour himself a goblet of mead from a bronze flagon with intricate molded decorations. “I’d offer ye a drink, but I see I needn’t bother!” He emptied the goblet the Elvenking had left half full, then refilled it and downed the strong, honeyed beverage again, placing it back on the table.

“I am not here to exchange pleasantries, King Dáin,” Thranduil stated in an arrogant voice, perfectly matching his demeanor.

“Figerred as much,” Dáin retorted and started pacing around him with cautious yet assured steps, like a wolf circling its prey. Their clandestine meetings had one purpose only, and tonight, he was not about to delay the moment of its fulfillment, especially since the elf seemed just as impatient. Perhaps even more impatient, Dáin thought; so much so, in fact, that he had made the effort to come all the way to Erebor and sneak into the dwarven king’s dwelling like a mere thief. Thranduil had never done that before, even though Dáin had built a secret passageway to his bedchambers only for him, in case that the Elvenking suddenly decided to come see him. It was, he had said, below his dignity. The only way they would meet was during official visits they made each other under various pretenses. Never spontaneously, never forced by circumstances. Yet now, there Thranduil was, nearly one month before their next planned tryst in Mirkwood, standing before him with that condescending air that drove Dáin mad with anger and lust. The dwarf could not have been happier to skip pleasantries. “Ye might as well remove yer clothes then. Or shall I do it for ye?”

“Must you be so lewd?” Thranduil glared at him with a considerable amount of disgust, that grew even more as a wicked grin spread on Dáin’s lips. “I did not come for that either.” 

“Didn’t ye?” the dwarf questioned, circling closer, a wanton look in his eyes. “Why _did_ ye come, my lovely sprite? Wha’ couldn’t wait another month?” 

A grimace of displeasure appeared on the elf’s handsome face at the mocking moniker, but he said nothing about it. When he spoke again, his voice sounded just the same as before, imperturbably prideful. “I will be brief, dwarf. I have lingered here too long already, waiting for you, in the sole company of fire and mediocre mead.” The insult he brought to the drink Dáin most enjoyed made the dwarf’s grin start to vanish. A sharp reply formed on his tongue, but Thranduil kept talking, not giving him time to blurt it out. “This – what we do – it needs to stop. It has been going on for too long now, and it leads nowhere. We are kings, the both of us. I expect I also speak on your behalf when I say that pleasures like the ones we seek to obtain from each other can be found in a more effortless manner. Besides,” he concluded, the haughtiness in his voice reaching an even higher level that caused Dáin’s grin to gradually turn into a scowl, “what good has it ever come from the association between an elf and a dwarf?” 

The King under the Mountain halted in front of him, unconcerned with the height difference in Thranduil’s favour, as he had always been. He stared at him in suspicion, his clever eyes sweeping the Elvenking’s face thoroughly, but he could find nothing there to tell him that Thranduil was in any way joking. The elf simply stared back dismissively, his proud nose held aloft. It was not Dáin’s opinion he was waiting for, the dwarf realized. It was merely his acquiescence to a unilateral decision, and the sheer disrespect implied by such an expectation made Dáin’s blood boil.   

“An’ did ye have to grace me with yer presence for this trifle?” he scoffed, passing him by to go pour himself another drink. “I’d rather ye had just sent word.” There was something that bothered him about Thranduil’s discourse, beyond the elf’s irreverence. He wouldn’t have tried to make it seem so unimportant otherwise. 

“And who, pray tell, do you think I could entrust with such matters?” the Elvenking said just as derisively, turning to him, but not moving from his spot. “Do not make me question your wit, King Dáin,” he went on with a sarcasm that told of his suspicion that it wasn’t all that much to question anyway. “I did you the courtesy of coming here to report to you my conclusion. The least you can do is spare me your ingratitude.”

Dáin gave him another look full of contempt. His bad mood, mixed with the anger Thranduil had aroused in him and the heady mead he had just drunk more than two full goblets of, slowly clouded his mind. He couldn’t very well focus on any thought other than that of wishing to humiliate the insolent elf the way he deserved for his attitude. “Ye dare come ‘ere wi’ tha’ sneer of yers,” he said, assuming a posture of defiance as he raised his voice and pointed an accusatory finger in the Elvenking’s direction. “Ye talk to me like ye be rulin’ the world, offendin’ me in my very home, an’ ye expect me to wha’? Bow to ye?! Hah!” He filled the goblet again, his hands steady despite his fury. 

“I merely ask you to be reasonable,” Thranduil riposted indifferently, not bothering to deny the rest of the accusations Dáin had brought him. “But I see this is too difficult a request for you.” Every word coming out of his mouth seemed to have the effortless ability to make Dáin’s indignation increase. It was as if each of his icy remarks had been skillfully crafted for that sole purpose, and even though the dwarf knew he should have been used to it after all those years he had known him, the Elvenking never failed to infuriate him every time they met. 

It seemed though that the amount of mead he hastily swallowed again, emptying the goblet for the fourth time that night, had the power to calm him somewhat. It didn’t surprise him – booze, provided he ingested enough, often gave him a clarity of thought he sometimes lacked when sober. He suddenly felt that getting irate over the elf’s behaviour was worthless, a complete waste of his time. He had better things to do then starting an argument with this arrogant king, and after the day he’d had, he certainly didn’t need more aggravation. So, willing his anger away, he gave Thranduil a hint of a superior smile, and told him in an almost good-humored tone, “Aye, yer not bein’ yerself, methinks. Go back to yer forest, elf, and give this matter more thought. Who knows, maybe ye’ll change yer mind.” With these words, he paid no heed to him any longer, and proceeded to make himself more comfortable, removing his fur-trimmed leather coat.

If he had still been looking at the Elvenking, Dáin would have surely noticed the gleam of annoyance flickering briefly in his eyes. “I’ll leave, but know that there is nothing for me to spend more thought on,” the elf said warningly. “Do not come to Mirkwood next month. You shall not be welcome.” With that, he turned on his heels and headed towards the hidden door to the passageway leading outside of Erebor.

As much as his good sense told him to let Thranduil leave, Dáin found it hard to listen to it. He knew that, if he did so, he would spend the rest of the night and, very likely, many days to come thinking about their short, spiteful conversation, about the elf having it his way and going back to his kingdom, his mission accomplished, not paying another thought to yet another ended chapter of his eternal life. Doing nothing about it was far from Dáin’s usual manner of handling such issues, therefore he chose to rely on his instincts and act as they dictated him, regardless of consequences. “Just a wee moment, please, if ye don’t mind,” he addressed him with a courtesy he wasn’t going to show the Elvenking further. 

The expression on Thranduil’s face when he turned around to find the tip of Dáin’s sword inches away from his throat pleased the dwarf greatly. “Think ye I’d allow a fickle hob to speak to me like tha’ an’ walk away?” he asked downright cheerfully. “If this be the last of our meetings, elf, then by Durin’s beard, ye shall remember it!”

The Elvenking glared down at him as if he wanted to stomp him like a cockroach. “Get your puny blade out of my face,” he spat, his voice dripping with cold menace, “or I’ll make it taste your blood.” There was no reason for Dáin to believe that he was not in tremendous peril, but although he knew how dangerous the elf could be, how strong and deadly despite his graceful appearance, the pride and courage in his dwarvish heart were too great. He was going to let himself driven by them, no matter how reckless that was.

“I’d cut yer throat before ye even moved,” he threatened back, and suggestively pressed the blade against the Elvenking’s neck. “Don’t try me!” His words were enforced by a bold smirk, and he wasn’t surprised in the least when the other mirrored it. But Thranduil’s deep eyes were like two frozen pools. If he felt anything, the dwarf was not allowed to know. Fortunately for Dáin, he wasn’t that interested in the elf’s feelings right now. “I’ll teach ye some proper respect, fairy of the forest, since ye haven’t learned it elsewhere,” he promised, a silent foreboding in his merry voice. “Take off those fancy clothes, come on.” The blade pressed even closer to Thranduil’s skin, not giving him time to protest.

One by one, the Elvenking’s garments dropped to the floor as he removed them without haste or hesitation – first the black velvet cloak, then the robe of emerald brocade and the fine silk undershirt. Dáin forced him to maintain a vertical position, and so he had to lift each leg, drawing the knee up in order to take off his boots. As he unbuckled the belt bearing his sword and discarded it out of reach, the dwarf, careful to keep his own weapon in place, took a stride behind him just in time to watch the elf uncovering his narrow hips and round buttocks as he pulled his leggings as low as he could, until they slipped down his long, muscular legs and he was able to step out of them with ease. 

Now that Thranduil was fully naked, Dáin could hardly resist the desire to touch him. Like any dwarf, he had an instinctive admiration for finely crafted things, and the elf’s body was among the most remarkable ones he had seen in his life. It looked like a marble sculpture, proportional all over, with its fair, impeccable skin stretched over harmoniously etched muscles, and yet Dáin knew its warmth and softness, and craved to have it beneath his fingers again. _Patience_ , he told himself. There was going to be enough time for touching.

“Are you quite done with your lecherous staring?” Thranduil asked in a dry voice, breaking the silence, and the dwarf returned to his previous spot in front of him. An expression both threatening and amused was on his face as he grinned at the elf, contented to notice his smirk was gone, replaced by a slight scowl of boredom and annoyance. “Though I did not come with great expectations,” the Elvenking went on, “you do not fail to disgust me!”

“Oh, shut yer gob, butterfly!” Dáin said boisterously, and with a flick of his hand, he angled his sword so that its tip rested gently against the groove between the elf’s nose and upper lip. “I’ll give ye something to whine about. On yer knees!”

For some reason, Thranduil did exactly as he was told, without any protest save for the cool spark of anger glimmering in his eyes for a brief moment. Whether his obedience was due to the nature of their relationship or to his unwillingness to risk an entirely possible, most likely fatal, violent reaction from Dáin, the dwarf cared very little. What really mattered to him was that the Elvenking had decided not to antagonize him. With satisfaction, he watched him dropping to his knees slowly, as if he was doing the king of Erebor a favour, his eyes filling with the spite of someone aware of his own helplessness.

Able to reach his head now, Dáin grabbed a handful of sleek hair gleefully. “Good!” he said almost kindly, wrapping the long tresses around his fist. He yanked him forward then, so hard and abruptly Thranduil was forced on all fours. “Now crawl,” the dwarf commanded, his blade still pointed at the elf’s neck, relishing the feeble whimper he couldn't hold back, and dragged him towards the bed, pulling on his hair like a leash.

The day, he thought, was not going to end too badly after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the kinkiest thing I ever wrote, and I regret nothing. I also wrote it real quick, so there might be lots of mistakes and badly phrased sentences, sorry about that... Oh, and don't ask me why Dáin wears that kind of jewelry, he just does, ok xD

Under the cold threat of steel, Thranduil had done all that the King under the Mountain had ordered him. He had stripped off his own clothes, all of them. He had kneeled before him and crawled on the floor like a mere beast. He had tied his own wrists together with the rope Dáin had given him, expertly knotting it and slipping his hands through loops impossible to break free from once tightened. And without even wondering whether the threat was real or not, he had followed all of those orders unhesitatingly.

He wished nothing to be different. He had known what might await him there, and once he had crossed the threshold into Dáin’s bedchambers, he had implicitly accepted it all. But what had never been easy for him to accept was his very own need to submit. Something in him – a prejudice of sorts – rejected it with all its might and filled him with an array of contradictory feelings that sometimes only constraint could harmonize. He didn’t know if he could have overcome Dáin’s threat, but he didn’t care. He had needed it to help his urges prevail against an ingrained bias, and, eventually, they had.

 “‘Tis no elven rope, this,” the dwarf let him know, as if there could be any doubt about that. “Ye can’t will it loose.” He securely tied the other end of the cord length knotted around Thranduil’s wrists to the wrought iron headboard, and a bridge formed over the bed. Half of it was rope. The other half was Thranduil’s arms and torso, stretched above the mattress as he was still on the floor, at the bed’s foot, grateful for the rich fur under his knees.

Dáin came to stand behind him with a brief, satisfied hum. His booted foot kicked his thighs open as wide as possible, and the elf felt his hot breath on the small of his back as the dwarf kneeled close beside him. He waited for his touch, so certain it would come he could almost sense the strong, rough hands seizing his flesh, and when it didn’t, he realized he craved it. In that posture, he often forgot that his existence was timeless. His patience was quickly running out, and he wished he could experience everything at once, frustrated by the impossibility of it.

Rigid leather bit into his muscle when Dáin drew a narrow strap around his left thigh and the bed’s corresponding leg, binding them together as close as he could. His right one was then fastened to the other leg, so swiftly he had no time to adjust to his new position, and he gave an irritated grunt at the harsh treatment, only to hear a mischievous chuckle behind him.

“Wha’s the matter?” the dwarf asked mockingly. “Is this not to yer Majesty’s likin’?” Thranduil muttered an elvish curse, which seemed to amuse Dáin even further. “Tha’s some mighty strong language for a queen,” he remarked, and moved into the Elvenking’s sight to sit on the bed’s edge, ignoring the murderous look his captive gave him. “Very unbefitting, elf!”

“Not more so than the word _honour_ is for the likes of you,” Thranduil spat, and a shiver of anticipation crawled down his spine when he saw the mirth disappearing from Dáin’s face. He knew exactly what to say to arouse his anger, and couldn’t help saying it, even when it seemed most foolish of him to do so. 

The dwarf caught his jaw in a vicious grip, digging his fingers into his cheeks and piercing his eyes with a frightening stare. It was the first time his skin actually touched Thranduil’s that night, and the elf jubilated at the thought as their contact made his heart thump. “Wha’ do ye know of honour?” Dáin hissed, utterly threatening despite not raising his voice too much. “Yer nowt but a meager elf bound to a dwarf’s bed, waitin’ for _the likes of me_ to abuse ye.” He set his jaw free then, and turned his back at him, walking towards the headboard with his heavy steps.  

Thranduil was past the point where he would let such words offend him. The state he was in made them seem sweeter than any endearment, the humiliation they conveyed more addictive than even love. He wanted to elicit more of them from the dwarf, and searched his mind for an equally insulting retort, but a moment later he decided to postpone it. Now it was time for him to focus on something that had even more impact on the way he felt. With unabashed hunger, he watched Dáin remove his leather bracers and wool tunic and discard them on the bed, and shivers crawled across his skin at the sight of that rugged torso, bare save for the luxuriant beard falling in crimson waves over the dwarf’s broad chest. He caught his bottom lip between his teeth, releasing it slowly while he gazed at the flexing muscles in Dáin’s arms, fascinated as he had always been with their sheer size and the way they rippled beneath the taut skin.  

The King under the Mountain turned his robust back at him and opened a drawer near the bed’s iron headboard, concealed into the stone wall. He rummaged through it for a little while, soon finding what he needed. When he faced Thranduil again, a black flogger with thin, round-braided lashes in his hand, a lopsided smirk curved the elf’s lips, and a wave of pure lust swept through his body as the realization of what was waiting for him surged hotly into his loins. The dwarf glowered at him from under furrowed brows, and he returned behind him, cracking the whip through the air to feel its heft and balance. The sound it made, amplified by Thranduil’s heightened senses, echoed in the Elvenking’s ears for long seconds. Only when he became aware of Dáin’s presence behind him again, bold and commanding despite his silence, did he feel truly exposed, splayed as he was before his captor and completely at his mercy. His last remnants of reason led him to make a desperate, absurd attempt to bring his thighs together, but the leather straps forcing them apart didn’t yield an inch, and that filled his wanton mind with joy and relief.

Gently, the dwarf took hold of Thranduil’s ankles and squeezed mildly as he traced long strokes upwards, over the elegant calves, so slowly as if he was contemplating him while doing it. His hands, ample and warm, ascended to his thighs then, caressing every bit of skin that they could reach, and higher still, onto his shapely bottom, molding around its firm curves and kneading them sensually. There was nothing obscene in his touch, and Thranduil let out a pleased purr, leaning his head against his suspended arms.

"Ye like it, don’ ye?” Dáin sneered, brushing his fingers through the elf’s silky hair that almost reached his waist. “Feels good when I touch ye like this. Wha’ would yer folk say if they saw ye, their great king, tremblin’ in pleasure under the hands of a dwarf?” He let out a rumble of laugh as he parted the rich mane in two, uncovering Thranduil’s smooth, toned back. “By Durin, to see their faces if they found ye behavin’ like a common whore! I’d gladly give years of my life for tha’!” He brought the two sections of hair to the front of Thranduil’s shoulders, tugging at them gingerly before he released them.

A sigh escaped the Elvenking’s throat at the delightful sensations the dwarf’s touch sent through him. “Should that happen, King Dáin,” he replied in a casual, relaxed voice, the threat in it dormant, but definitely present, “I will make sure you give them all.”

“Ye feisty sprite,” Dáin said behind him, quite appreciatively, the grin on his lips reflecting in his voice, and Thranduil’s eyes widened when he felt the flogger’s lashes starting to crawl down his back. All his senses became alert again as supple leather drifted across his skin, tracing a light path over his buttocks and lower on his legs. In the dwarf’s hand, the whip moved teasingly along his body, its braided tails all over. They sneaked between his legs, caressed the inside of his thighs, dragged upon his sac. Thranduil emitted a shaky, vocal breath as one of them glided through the cleft of his ass, passingly brushing against the sensitive entrance, and he pushed his hips forward to grind his perfectly formed erection into the bed.

“Steady now,” Dáin ordered, and spread the elf’s ass cheeks wider apart by giving the left one a firm squeeze. He bent his torso so that he could reach closer to Thranduil’s ear, and inhaled deeply at his nape, letting the air out in a long, hot puff of breath. “Ye smell of fear and desire, elf,” he said, lust dripping from his voice. “But never ye mind, pretty thing. Yer in my hands.” The flogger’s braided plaits traveled up on his captive’s shoulder blades again, and Thranduil grunted in exasperation, unable to take that merciless teasing anymore, craving and, at the same time, fearing its end.  

With no warning but a snap of air, Dáin brought the whip down on the lowest curve of the Elvenking’s ass once, not very heavily, merely a slap compared to the blows that were going to follow. Nevertheless, Thranduil gasped, writhing against his restraints, as if he hadn’t anticipated the impact at all. The first hit, no matter how light, was always the most intense to him for some reason. He could never prepare himself enough to receive it. “Please–” he mewled in supplication, and he could practically hear the dwarf’s smirk as the second stroke arrived, stinging the back of his thighs and making him tremble. Then, the blows started to rain down upon his defenseless body, only as hard as it took to make the blood rush forth towards the surface of the skin and sensitize it for the heavier ones to come. Dáin worked across his legs, his ass, his lower and upper back with patience, chuckling wickedly from time to time, obviously relishing the elf’s soft whimpers of pain, pleasure and excitement, as well as every jolt his punishment sent through him. 

By the time the dwarf finally stopped hitting him, the entire exposed area between Thranduil’s neck and ankles burned and throbbed, causing the elf to shiver uncontrollably. His flesh had memorized each of the painful strokes, and he could clearly picture the pattern of red, tingling stripes imprinted in his skin. Dáin’s hand felt cold and coarse as his fingertips traced the ones across the Elvenking’s shoulders, and he shrugged away from the unpleasant touch with an involuntary jerk. 

“So beautiful ye look,” the King under the Mountain said in genuine admiration, undeterred by the rejecting motion. “Ye’ll bear my marks for days.” His fingers trailed along the elf’s spine down to the hollow of his waist before he decided to remove them.

Thranduil closed his eyes, unable to stop panting. He was aware the worst was yet to come, and his heart leapt with anticipation as he wondered what fate awaited him, how much crueler than usual Dáin was going to be to him while he still had the chance. “Enjoy the view, dwarf,” he advised, straightening his back as much as he could and looking over his shoulder. “You shall not see it again.” He couldn’t fully understand his urge to incite his captor like that. He only knew that he was curious to find out how far Dáin would go, and, more importantly, how much he would be able to endure himself. 

His body was sent forward by the force of a new kind of blow, sharper, swifter, more pronounced, that sent a searing pain right through his shoulder. He tossed his head back, and an anguished cry burst from his throat. It hurt so badly that, for a moment, it felt as if the whip had penetrated his flesh, coming out on the other side. He cursed again, his stomach tightening with that atrocious feeling, his toes pushing against the floor. Dáin grunted – the only thing that signaled the pain that was about to slice through the elf again – and the second whack landed upon Thranduil’s other shoulder, drawing a gasp and another cry from his mouth. “Tha’s it, elf, scream for me,” Dáin rasped, and savagely hit again and again, filling the Elvenking with overpowering agony, and reducing him to a squirming, yelping mess.

But physical pain was not something Thranduil could not overcome. As far as he remembered, this was the most intense Dáin had ever inflicted on him – and he had actually expected it when he had seen that light, narrow-lashed flogger in his hand. Once the initial shock passed though, he realized that, no matter how much it hurt, the dwarf had no intention to harm him, not really. Dáin, well-versed in wielding a whip, delivered the blows with utter accuracy, making sure no lash hit the same spot twice. He also finished every stroke before the harsh ends of the tails could dig into the elf’s tender flesh, and even though their lengths would leave severe welts and bruising, Thranduil’s precious skin was not going to be broken.

Relief and agony wove into each other, and he let his head relax upon his arms again, taking the stinging blows that followed with more ease now, although he couldn’t stop the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes from falling, nor his breath from coming out in long, ragged gasps, almost like a wheeze. It was still torture, what Dáin put him through, but it also felt good, now that he’d learned how to take it. Sublime pleasure joined agony in a delicious mixture, and each time leather impacted his skin, Thranduil’s cock throbbed with need, droplets of precum oozing from it and soaking into the bedding. His senses, more acute now, perceived everything – the softest touch, the faintest smell, the quietest noise. He captured Dáin’s odour with clarity, detecting every note – leather, smoke, charcoal, sprinkled with the very distinct one of his arousal, spicy and bitter, more alluring to the Elvenking than any other.  

“E-enough,” he whimpered, in need of another kind of attention from the dwarf. “Please,” he begged, “enough of this. Take me, make me yours–” Another whiplash landed across his thighs, cutting his plea short, and the dwarf let out a derisively amused laugh at the pained groan Thranduil could not suppress. “Please!” the elf insisted, shaking and panting with desire. There was nothing in the world he wanted more in that very moment than to have Dáin deep inside him, filling him full, and not even the blissful torment he gave him could assuage that craving.

With one more blow, Dáin stopped. The Elvenking reveled in his quick breath, almost matching his own, and prayed that the dwarf would not tease him any longer. The large, rough hands finally cupped his bottom, spreading his cheeks apart, and despite the pain his grip on the abused flesh caused, or perhaps thanks to it – the elf could not be sure anymore, Thranduil’s arousal grew seemingly tenfold. He felt his inner depths starting to tighten and twitch in small contractions, and with a plaintive, undignified mewl, he leaned into the safety of his restraints, realizing he was one step away from an imminent orgasm. 

“Look at ye, so shameless, so needy,” Dáin growled, a mix of lust and scorn in the way he spoke. “I’ll give ye what ye want, for the last time, as is yer wish.” He spat unceremoniously onto the elf’s entrance, and his thick thumb slid over it back and forth, eventually pushing inside past the tight ring of muscle, with no pretense of finesse. The sudden intrusion brought Thranduil back from his blissful state, but he breathed out a sighing moan nevertheless, happy he could delay his climax a little longer. He pushed his ass against the dwarf’s thumb until he could push no more, and for a moment he remained still, delighting in the voluptuous contact, almost fully satisfied by how snugly the slick digit fit into his body.

When Dáin started to rotate his thumb into the elf’s hot, clinging channel, stretching it, Thranduil pushed his hips forward a few inches, only to thrust backwards against the dwarf’s hand once more. He did it again and again, twisting as he instinctively sought supreme pleasure, grateful to have at least that part of Dáin embedded in him, so mindless with need he forgot he wanted more. “Sit still,” he heard Dáin grumble, “or I’ll make ye.” But he couldn’t bring himself to care about anything now, except the climax he desired so badly, and he clenched his inner walls around the thumb’s width, ignoring the dwarf’s warning.

A sudden cry spilled from his lips when the whip slapped his bent buttocks again. The pain it sent throughout his flesh, burning and sharp, combined with the sweet pressure inside him sent him into a maelstrom of sensations so powerful it took over his body, sweeping away his last bit of self-control. “It is your own fault, dwarf, for not restraining me properly in the first place,” he uttered between his own moans and the loud, cracking sounds of whiplashes against his skin.

Dáin pulled his thumb out of him almost completely, then pushed it in again with a roll, meeting his thrust. He gave his backside one last stroke, and Thranduil finally stilled, the intense spasms of his anal muscles signaling his fast-approaching orgasm and stealing his breath.

When the dwarf denied it to him for the second time by abruptly removing his digit from the pulsing passage, the Elvenking sobbed in despair. His aching body needed release with such urgency he was ready to beg for it in the most degrading of fashions, but before he could say a word, he realized he wasn’t going to have to. Something solid and cold entered him with ease, and he focused on it with hope renewed. It was narrow, gentle at first, even soothing with its coolness, but as it slowly advanced inside him, he noticed it got wider and wider, forcing him open. “Maybe this’ll teach ye a lesson in obedience, elf,” Dáin purred ominously, pushing the strange object deeper into Thranduil’s insufficiently prepared hole, to the point where it started to hurt. “Move, and it’ll tear yer insides apart.”

With horror, the Elvenking became aware of what his captor tortured him with, and his first impulse was to reject the invasion, squeeze his muscles hard enough to make Dáin withdraw the object from his body, but luckily for him, he didn’t do that. He closed his eyes with a long sigh, and the image of the dwarf’s left thumb clad fully in a rune-engraved iron claw ring floated behind his eyelids, causing him to shudder. “N-no,” he stammered, at the same time trying to relax in order to reduce the increasing pain. The ring wasn’t too sharp – Thranduil remembered feeling its tip running along his back when Dáin’s left hand had previously touched him – but it could surely pierce the skin if enough pressure was applied.

“Quiet,” the dwarf said curtly. “Ye’ve taken bigger.” But it was the danger it presented, as well as its contours and smooth rigidity, rather than its size, that troubled the Elvenking the most. It strained his inner muscles with a pain harder for him to stand than the flogger’s blows – a different kind, one that he didn’t welcome, a strong, dull throb that nothing but more pain could come out of. 

“Too much,” he uttered, his voice merely a whisper, while struggling not to move. “No more, I beg of you, no more!” He felt the iron claw slide even deeper inside him pitilessly, and even though he willed his body limp, he could not keep his unwilling channel from fluttering in agony around the intrusive girth.

Once Dáin’s ringed thumb was entirely sheathed in him, the dwarf’s right hand enveloped Thranduil’s cock and stroked it to full hardness again. He was going to bring him to completion like that, the elf knew, and the thought that Dáin finally considered him worthy of it managed to arouse him more than any touch. The pain he felt had not become more bearable, nor did it mix with the pleasure spreading from his sex, but they completed each other in a surprising way that the Elvenking decided needed further exploration in the future.

Low-voiced words in Khuzdul commanded Thranduil to come, and that was the elf’s undoing. The first wave of orgasm rose within him, and just before it crashed, he felt the tormenting claw slipping out of his body, leaving no damage behind, only a painful emptiness that surged up his spine. It was as if pleasure and pain peaked in him simultaneously, as if two climaxes, not one, rippled through him, sharing him equally between them. He panted and cried out loudly with the intensity of each sensation, and all he could do was hang in the bindings that kept him from collapsing, in a state of total elation, until Dáin eventually cut him loose and caught him safely in his powerful arms.

 


	3. Chapter 3

The king of Erebor wasted no time. He placed Thranduil’s spent body on the floor and laid him on his stomach almost gently, bringing his thighs together and straddling them with agility. His apparently infallible self-control was starting to waver, worn thin by the fervency of all that had just happened. The elf’s subsiding gasps, his graceful, pliant form, the fresh whip marks adorning his skin – they all made Dáin’s arousal almost too hard to bear, but the thought that he wouldn’t have to for much longer gave him strength. 

With no preamble, his right hand’s index and middle finger slid between Thranduil’s finely shaped buttocks and plunged inside of him, stretching the still twitching muscles with brutality. Coated with the Elvenking’s warm seed, they slipped rather easily into the already damp tightness that closed around them hot and elastic. The elf jolted in surprise, and with a grunt of discomfort, he tried to propel himself upwards with his forearms, but Dáin’s hand kept him down, flexing his hand firmly around the delicate curve of his neck. 

“What are you doing?” Thranduil asked feebly, making a futile attempt to open his legs between the dwarf’s immovable thighs to ease the ache caused by the rough handling. 

“Ye said ye wanted to be fucked,” Dáin replied, happy to notice his voice didn’t reflect his own desperate need. “It wouldn’t do to keep ye waitin’ now, would it!” He withdrew his fingers until their tips reached the rim of the tight, clenching orifice, and rammed them all the way in again, so forcefully Thranduil’s hips buckled underneath him. The elf pressed his forehead against the fur-covered floor, a quiet, heavy sob escaping his lips as his velvety channel began to adjust around momentarily still fingers. An uncontrollable shiver visibly ran through his body when they curled inside him and nudged the hidden, most sensitive spot within, and he let out a moan so erotic it sent a raging, potent rush of lust to the dwarf’s groin. 

“Yer insatiable, elf,” Dáin said huskily, and started to pump his fingers in and out of him, faster, rougher and seemingly deeper with each thrust. Releasing Thranduil’s neck, his hand darted between his own legs, palming his massive erection through the fabric of his trousers before proceeding to undo the laces that held them in place. “Maybe I should take ye to the lads, let’em ‘ave their way with ye. Believe ye me, there are plenty among ‘em who wouldn’t think twice before shovin’ their cocks in one of the fair folk. The Elvenking, no less!” He removed his fingers completely from the elf’s body, and leaned forward, aligning his chest with Thranduil’s back. “Do tell me, precious elf-whore,” he panted, savoring each of the incessant whimpers the king of the woodland realm couldn’t hold back, “what are yer thoughts on tha’?” With a swift, nimble move of his hand, he spread the fluid dripping from the tip of his hefty shaft all over it, and let its swollen head rest against the Elvenking’s luscious opening, waiting for his answer. 

With a faint shadow of his incorrigible smirk, Thranduil looked at him over his shoulder. “Maybe you should,” he said softly, in a voice quivering with want. _Predictable_ , Dáin thought, and the pangs of an irrational feeling that bordered on jealousy made his stomach clench. As far as irrationality went, it was hard for him to imagine he would ever willingly share the pleasures that Thranduil’s body had to offer with anyone – even his own people. It was such a pity that he had to part with them himself. 

With a feral growl, he placed his hands on the elf’s hips, and lifting his ass in the air, he entered him to the hilt with a single violent thrust. A sharp intake of breath caught in Thranduil’s throat before he released it along with a long, loud cry of pain and delight, and Dáin took the time to revel in the sound of it and the sweet sensation of the Elvenking’s inner walls gripping his cock in a pulsing, almost too tight embrace. Their moans mixed and filled the room when the dwarf began to thrust into him hard, with a ferocity empowered by the knowledge it was the last time he was doing it. He briefly wondered how it was possible for him to so deeply enjoy someone he disliked so much, but since this wasn’t a time to ponder, his mind emptied of all thought.

With the sole aim of getting his pleasure, he raised the Elvenking’s hips even higher, and the muscles in his arms tensed and flexed as he began to pull him onto his cock over and over again with increasing speed while the power of his thrusts lessened. He met no resistance from him, no protest, no complaint. Lost in sensation, Thranduil allowed his body to be tossed back and forth on Dáin’s relentless shaft, ecstatic elvish words leaving his lips between moans, yelps and sudden gasps. Using his body like that was bliss to the dwarf, and he continued to impale himself into the elf’s narrow hole, unable to get enough of the incomparable feeling of being inside him.

When an explosive climax started to build within him like a rapidly spreading flame, Dáin slowed down his pace until he stopped and completely withdrew from Thranduil’s snug warmth with a regretful grumble. He released the Elvenking from the steel-like confines of his hands and thighs, and swiftly rolled him on his back, lifting and pushing his legs wide apart. With a pleased grin, he moved between them and stared down at the beautiful elf splayed there for him to take, at his proud, handsome face covered in drying tears, at the smooth ivory skin of his heaving chest. The thought he had to let him go stabbed through him all of a sudden like a knife, and it was only now that he realized how addicted to him he had become. That was what too much of a good thing could do, even to a dwarf. Thranduil was excellent, and he had given Dáin all of himself.

“I’ll be longin’ for ye, Elvenking,” the dwarf confessed, stroking his inner thighs almost affectionately. He saw him grasping at the furs he lay upon and his lips quivering, no words coming out. “An’ ye for me, though ye’ll not admit it.” His right hand traveled upwards to Thranduil’s new erection, ghosting along it until his fingers reached the tender head to collect the oozing beads of precum there. Thranduil sighed softly, licking his lips and spreading his legs more when Dáin gave his shaft a lubricating stroke, slicking it for the ones that followed. 

“I see I do not have to,” he breathed in reply. A barely perceptible smile graced his features, and even the dwarf had to agree that few things in the world were better than the honest smile of an elf. It almost saddened him when it disappeared as he claimed the Elvenking’s body again, rewarding him with a slow, deep thrust, stretching him open anew. Thranduil bit his lower lip hard, and a low sound rumbled in the back of his throat. “So good,” he whimpered when Dáin was once more fully sheathed inside him, and he wrapped his long legs around the other’s back, urging him to bend forward. Dáin leaned on his arms as he brought his torso closer to the elf’s, and Thranduil’s hands inched up along them until, finally, his fingers clasped onto the broad shoulders. They moaned in unison when the king of Erebor moved his hips back and forth repeatedly, in a manner slower than before, but somehow deeper, more powerful, each of his strokes designed to bring them both closer to release.        

When Thranduil’s moans began to turn into soft, shaky cries and the grip of his legs tightened around the dwarf, Dáin could feel the gratifying pressure of his own climax on the rise. He gave one more fierce thrust as deeply inside the heated channel as possible, and he erupted within the body beneath him with a raw groan of indescribable pleasure, just as the first orgasmic spasm rippled through the Elvenking, rendering him breathless. His seed flooded Thranduil’s insides in a free-flowing, interminable stream, while the elf’s spilled between them, its warmth radiating against Dáin’s abdomen.

Thranduil’s fingers tangled into the thick, coarse waves of the dwarf’s hair, and Dáin thumbed the pointy tip of his ear playfully as he cupped the back of his head in response. They pulled each other into a devouring kiss, ardent and profound, their teeth colliding, their tongues battling. They kissed and kissed through the end of their euphoric frenzy and into a lasting state of languid contentment, happy to share the aftermath of their passion in soothing silence before the time would come for them to part.


	4. Chapter 4

“If ye think I believed ye for one second, yer sorely mistaken, elf,” Dáin said with a snort of defiant humor. “One would be foolish to trust the word of a…” A dismissive wave of his hand at Thranduil rendered other words unnecessary. “Of a fay,” he resumed his phrase nevertheless, ending it by slamming his goblet a little too loudly upon the table.    

“Good. There is no reason for us to part on bad terms then. I should hate that,” the Elvenking replied with a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth, inwardly amused. Dáin’s frustration was so obvious that trying to hide it made the entire situation quite comical. It wasn’t the elf’s deceit he resented – after all, it had only worked out for the better for both of them – but the fact that he hadn’t been able to tell he had been misled, despite him claiming differently. Although, Thranduil couldn’t fully understand why the dwarf found that frustrating, considering how much he had seemed to enjoy what he believed to be their last private encounter.

Dáin let out a sarcastic utterance of doubt and contempt the Elvenking pretended to ignore, and shifted in his armchair uneasily. He could think of nothing witty to say in the unfortunate position he had put himself in, and Thranduil found that rather satisfying.

“However,” the elf went on, leaning back into his own seat, “my request that you do not come to Mirkwood next month stands.”

“Did I hurt ye so bad?” Dáin asked, a triumphant grin slowly spreading on his lips, and a shudder made the Elvenking tremble from within as he focused on the mild burning sensation all over the back of his body, left behind by the dwarf’s cruel attention. Nothing hurt – not yet, not anymore – but he knew his skin would lose its temporary numbness and the pain would come again with the morrow, throbbing and sharp, and he was ready for it, awaiting it like a coveted gift. A brief, suggestive smile was the only answer to the dwarf’s teasing question.  

“I received word from Legolas yesterday. He shall arrive to Mirkwood in four weeks’ time,” he said, serious all of a sudden. “I have not seen him in six years.” He looked at Dáin with his usual haughtiness, fully expecting a mocking reaction from him, but his eyes softened at the solemn expression of his face. Dáin was a king after all, and a good one at that. He knew how to act with wisdom and tact when occasion required. It was easy for Thranduil to forget that sometimes.

“Well, tha’ calls for a toast, I’d say!” the dwarf exclaimed, and poured mead for both of them, obviously pleased that he now had a reason to drink some more. They raised their goblets, and the Elvenking emptied his in a few long gulps, without any objection to the quality of the drink. “Will he stay long, d’ye reckon?” Dáin inquired, genuinely interested for one reason or other. 

The elf smiled again, bitterly this time, and turned his head towards the fire to hide his emotions. The immense joy of seeing his son after so long could only come with the grief brought by the knowledge he would depart again. Although neither feeling could prevail, they fought madly in his heart, and sometimes, the signs of their battle would show on his face against his will. “He never does,” he said softly, unable to conceal his turmoil behind the neutrality of his tone.

“Oh, dry yer eyes!” the dwarf bantered, earning a reproving glare from the Elvenking. “Ye should be proud. Yer lad, he’ll save this world, ye’ll see. He’ll save us all.” His conviction, so unexpectedly expressed, took Thranduil aback for a moment, and he spent a while longer gazing at the confidence on the dwarf’s features. He had learned millennia ago not to care about mortals more than necessary, but even after all that time, their idealism still fascinated him. It was endearing, therefore he needed to avoid it.

“Well, King Dáin, I would much rather he save himself,” he said and stood up with a supple movement. “I must take my leave now. I bid you a good night. And though I know not when, I will meet you again.”

“King Thranduil,” the dwarf stopped him. It was for the first time that evening that he was calling him by name. “Before ye go, I’ve a wee somethin’ to give ye.” He made his way towards the hidden drawer beside the bed’s headboard, opened it, and this time he took out a small golden box embossed with silver leaves – a superb artifact in itself. “I meant to bring it to ye next month, but since yer here…” He opened it as he approached the Elvenking, and Thranduil’s eyes gleamed with avid delight at the sight of its content.

“Is this…” he whispered, and he stooped to take a closer look at the magnificent jewel lying on a bed of red velvet. It was a massive but delicately handcrafted gold ring made of uniquely intertwining leafless twigs, beautiful in its complexity, and yet simple enough not to subdue the splendor of the pearl it sheltered.

“Aye,” the dwarf nodded proudly. “Nimphelos. A gem fit for a king.” 

“I thought it lost,” Thranduil murmured, unable to tear his eyes away from the treasure Dáin was holding. The pearl’s impressive size was mesmerizing, and its satiny luster seemed to swirl before the elf’s eyes with an eerie depth. Three small, finely cut diamonds framed it, filtering the light and spreading it all over its surface so that thousands of colors shimmered across the purest white at every angle. 

“Everyone did,” the king of Erebor shrugged, “’cept ole’ Smaug, I should think. I found it under the very throne, not long ago. I made this ring for it myself, but still it didn’t do its beauty justice, an’ so I figgered– Ah well. It belonged to yer people in the first place.” 

Thranduil glanced at him briefly before his eyes returned upon the jewel to gaze at it with reverence and wonder. Many a wonderful gift Dáin had given him over the years, but nothing as precious as that one. Enchanted, he drew a fingertip around the smooth contour of Nimphelos, unaware of the soft sigh of delectation escaping his lips. 

“’Ere,” the dwarf said, evidently pleased with the Elvenking’s reaction, and he placed the box in Thranduil’s left hand, taking his right one in his own. “Allow me.” He lifted the ring from its cushion and slipped it with unusual delicacy on the elf’s elegant forefinger, which it gracefully embraced. Thranduil smiled, rejoicing as he admired his new possession, not sure if it was his hand that lingered in Dáin’s or Dáin’s that held his one moment too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this fic was very much a journey of self-discovery for me in some way. And I actually came to like the title :D Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> (PS. [Here](http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/Nimphelos) is something about Nimphelos, and [this](http://www.kkjewelryarchives.com/arthur-king-an-18k-gold-pearl-and-diamond-ring-c1970/) is kinda how the ring bearing it looks like c: )


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